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  “I don’t have an appointment, but I was wondering if I might be able to speak with Mr. Christopoulos. You see, I’m working on a story about the recent boom in development in major cities around the country and wanted to get his perspective on it. I’m on a deadline, and I would really be grateful,” he added with a seductive smile.

  The woman nervously reached for the silent phone and quickly pulled her hand away. “I’m afraid Mr. Christopoulos is very busy today. I can have him call you later if you’d like.”

  “I have a few hours until my next appointment. I can wait, if that’s all right with you.”

  The receptionist stood and said with a slight huff, “I’ll see if Mr. Christopoulos is free now. Please have a seat and I’ll be right back.”

  Before Gideon could cross his legs, Tony entered the room.

  “Mr. Truman,” Tony said approaching with a guarded smile and extended hand. “I’m Tony Christopoulos, Mayor Hardaway’s chief of staff. We met at the State of the City address.”

  Gideon met Tony halfway and shook his hand. “Yes, I remember. Thank you for seeing me without an appointment, Mr. Christopoulos.”

  “Please call me Tony. I’m a fan of yours.”

  “As I told your assistant, I’m working on a story about the sudden increase in development in urban cities in the last year, and I wanted to speak with someone from this city. Several people suggested I talk to you.”

  “Who exactly are the people who suggested you speak with me, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “To be honest, I actually don’t remember. Just colleagues of yours, I suppose. But I do recall they spoke very highly of you.”

  The two men locked eyes. At this point, the entire exchange had little to do with the words they spoke and everything to do with what their eyes were saying.

  “Really?” Tony said holding his cards close to his chest.

  “Look, Mr. Christo . . . Tony, I’m kind of in a bind here. This is a small human interest story, and I’d really like to get it done quickly so I can start working on a piece about Mayor Camille Hardaway.” Gideon paused briefly to allow the hint of a threat to sink in. “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?” he asked innocently. “I promise to not take much of your time.”

  Tony couldn’t disguise his discomfort behind the thin civil servant veneer. He diverted his eyes and looked at his Rolex two times before answering.

  “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I really do have a lot—”

  “Just a few minutes, Tony. No more, I promise.”

  Tony looked over his shoulder to the assistant for help, but found her desperately trying to go unnoticed behind the desk.

  “I suppose . . .” Tony finally said.

  “Great! I really appreciate this.”

  Tony’s office was more of the same—stark, beige with few furnishings. He took the seat of power behind the desk and motioned for Gideon to sit in one of the two chairs positioned in front.

  “I really only have a few minutes,” Tony said, minus the charm, “so let’s get right to it.”

  “Yes, of course.” Gideon decided to waste no time bringing out the big gun. “Are you familiar with Michael Kenigrant of KeyCorp Development?”

  “Yes,” Tony replied cautiously.

  “Of course you are. The city has bought a number of properties from him. Is that correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Now help me understand something. I can’t find any public records showing Michael Kenigrant exists. Birth certificate, driver’s license, passport, school records . . . nothing. It’s an unusual name, and, I tell you, Tony, I’m stumped. Can you explain that to me?”

  Tony’s face showed he now realized his original suspicions about Gideon were accurate. Why else would a national reporter with a reputation for investigating scandals show up unannounced on city hall’s doorstep?

  Tony leaned forward. “What is this really about, Mr. Truman?” he asked.

  “By your reaction, I think you know what it’s about.”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  Gideon decided to take the risk of showing his hand early. Tony’s inability to hide his emotions reduced it to a calculated risk.

  “This is about Sheridan Hardaway. He’s Michael Kenigrant, isn’t he?”

  Gideon estimated Tony blinked his eyes eight times in four seconds. Poor guy should never play poker, he thought.

  Tony stood from the desk and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This interview is over. Now if you will excuse me, I really am very busy.”

  “Does Camille know?” Gideon pressed hoping for more involuntary responses from Tony’s eyes. “Either you can tell me, or she can because I am going to ask her.”

  “You are terribly mistaken, Mr. Truman. Now please leave.”

  “Is the land in Playa del Rey going to be the next deal? Is that why Mayor Hardaway wants to build the new stadium, because she and Sheridan stand to make millions?”

  “If you don’t leave right now, I will have my assistant call the police.”

  “Police?” Gideon laughed. “I think the last people you want to come in here are the police.”

  Tony walked aggressively around the desk and stood over Gideon.

  “You really should talk to a doctor about that nervous eye twitch,” Gideon said as he stood. “It could be a sign something else is going terribly wrong and,” he added, “in this case, I think that may be the case.”

  Gideon took an aggressive step forward. “You’ve answered all my questions, Tony. Please tell Mayor Hardaway I’ll be in touch.”

  “President! I have no desire to be president! This is madness! Utter madness!”

  “Why do you question me? Have I not kept my promises to you? Against all odds, I have made you governor of this state.”

  “Yes, against all odds and against my will.”

  “Nonsense. You wanted to be governor.”

  “Yes, but only to please you.”

  Governor Fantoché paced the living room as he spoke. “I did it to find favor with you, but now I see it was not enough. I have fought tirelessly to end slavery, yet every day you require more and more of me. Now you say president. I cannot. I do not have the strength. I will not!”

  Juliette watched him calmly from the tufted sofa as he walked nervously from one side of the living room to the other. Her jade eyes grew tighter with every word he spoke.

  The governor suddenly rushed to Juliette, violently kicked the rococo coffee table from between them with his knee-high black leather boot, and knelt desperately at her feet.

  “My darling, no more. Please, understand I am already well out of my depths as governor. The idea of me being president is ludicrous at best and absolutely insane at worst.”

  “Insane, yes, I agree,” Juliette said coldly. “Your intellect is much better suited for the filthy world of a sugar baron than that of president, but you need not worry. I and my associates will guide you. We will make all the important decisions for you.”

  “I know what it is you want, my darling. But it is impossible. I cannot end slavery in this country as president,” Fantoché pleaded. “The institution is far too deeply entrenched in our culture. It is sanctioned by the highest law in the land, the Constitution. The economy would implode. There would surely be civil war between the North and South.”

  Juliette stood abruptly, causing the governor to topple onto the floor. Her red silk brocaded gown with black embroidered roses slapped against his face as she made her way to the fireplace and stood in front of the black candle at the center of the mantel.

  “Do you believe I fear civil war? The blood of a million white men flowing over the cotton and tobacco fields of the South would still not be enough to wash away the stain of slavery.”

  Fantoché looked up from the floor in astonishment. “Just because a few zealous abolitionists are willing to risk their lives and freedoms to end slavery, it is unreasonable and deeply misguided to ass
ume the average white American would do the same.”

  “In the South, no,” she said sneering down at him. “But there are enough men of conscience in the North who would gladly fight to challenge the Constitution and end this ungodly state of oppression. By codifying slavery, the Constitution is nothing more to these honorable men than a covenant with death and an agreement with the devil.”

  “The South would rebel and sever the Union permanently in two.”

  The unlit wick of the black candle behind Juliette released a series of sparks and flashes mirroring the heated exchange between the two. Fantoché looked at the candle behind her with fear in his eyes.

  “Juliette, mon chéri, do not for one moment believe I support the institution. It is an abomination before God, and I am sure our children and our children’s children will pay the price for our shameless inhumanity. But what you propose is madness. How can I . . .” he paused as the candle sputtered and sparked, then burst into a robust flame.

  Fantoché proceeded with his eyes darting between Juliette and the flame. “How can I alone convince the country to abruptly end an institution that is an integral part of their very existence? Our reliance on slave labor is the foundation of this economy. The cotton industry would collapse. The tobacco crops would dry in the fields. Sugarcane would cease being profitable. Can you not see it is unreasonable to make such demands of me? I am not strong enough to do as you ask.”

  “I advise you to choose your words to me carefully,” Juliette said coldly. The burning candle caused her golden hair to glow as if illuminated from within. “Have you learned nothing from your time with me? Your only option is absolute obedience.”

  Fantoché slowly lowered his head, curled his hulking body into a ball on the intricately woven Persian rug, and wept. “I cannot,” he cried. “I am not strong enough to do as you wish. Please, I beg you. Release me from your spell.”

  Camille placed the leather box in her lap and avoided eye contact with Gillette. She could almost smell Sheridan’s cologne as she held the case and heard his voice softly saying, “I love you, baby.” He made love to her body like no man before. He ran her bath after a day of being battered and bruised in her rough-and-tumble world. Yes, it began as a marriage of convenience; a pretty face behind the powerful woman, a prop on the stage of her life. But, somewhere along the way, she fell in love.

  Somewhere between “I do,” and “I don’t know what I would do without you,” her pragmatic plan morphed into passion and pleasure. But was it enough to forego access to the top office in the country? Was the ecstasy satisfying enough to sustain her in the days to come when remorse would surely haunt her? Would his tender kisses, at just the right spot on the nape of her neck, provide adequate comfort when regret came to call?

  The answer to all the questions was clearly no, but Camille couldn’t bring herself to cross that line. She needed him much more than even she had realized. Could she do it alone again? Who would stroke her hair on lonely nights? Who would tell her, just at the point of defeat, “Fuck’em all, baby, you can do it without them”?

  But the betrayal and deceit, could she ever forgive that? The lies remained lodged in her back like poisoned daggers as she sat in front of the silent Gillette Lemaitre. How could the man who gave her so much pleasure serve an even greater portion of pain? He removed a piece of her heart with surgical precision and fed it to her daily, masked by the sweet tastes of honey and wine.

  Camille guided herself systematically toward the inevitable conclusion. No, the ecstasy was not sufficient. Her neck would have to sacrifice the warmth of his kiss. She would have to remind herself to, “fuck them all,” and no, forgiveness was not an option.

  Camille lifted the case from her lap and handed it to Gillette.

  “Are you sure?” Gillette asked softly.

  “Yes,” Camille said, tentatively considering the need to revisit the question. Her answer came quickly. “Yes, I’m sure,” this time with more conviction.

  “Then come with me.”

  Gillette placed the contents of the box on the dining-room table, along with the candle. A spray of sparks burst from the unlit wick each time she removed an item from the box. Louie looked on attentively from his perch, his head turning curiously from side to side. The room was almost completely dark as dusk arrived unannounced.

  “Sit there,” Gillette said, pointing to the chair at the opposite end of the table. “This time we’re going to do it together.”

  Camille tensed at the notion. “I can’t,” she said softly.

  “That was not a request, my dear. Sit down,” Gillette said firmly.

  Camille pulled the wooden chair from the table, causing the legs to screech against the hardwood floor.

  The first item was a little round pillbox with a hinged top. Gillette opened it and saw a jumble of black hair clippings. “Excellent,” she said. “This will do perfectly.”

  Camille asked Sheridan repeatedly to clean the sink whenever he shaved the beard he occasionally grew. “Honey,” she called out to him on numerous mornings, “please clean the sink after you shave. There’s hair everywhere.”

  “Let the maid do it. Give her something to complain about.”

  On this particular morning, Camille functioned as the maid and swept the coarse black hairs into the little pillbox and placed it into the leather case.

  Gillette then removed a folded card made of roughhewn paper from the box. The edges were jagged, and the surface was a porous sandy brown with specks of lavender and rose peddles.

  “My Dearest Camille,” the card read. “As a great poet once said, you are the sunshine of my life. That’s why I’ll always be around. You have made me the happiest man in the world by agreeing to be my wife. I will love and protect you until the day I die.”

  XOXO,

  Sheridan

  The last was a photograph Camille took of Sheridan on a trip to the Bahamas. The shirtless man stood proudly in the sand with the powder-blue water of Gold Rock Beach in the background. It was only last year the couple walked barefoot and hand-in-hand along the secluded shore, bathed in a shower of warmth and light, not another soul was in sight.

  “We should move here when we retire,” Sheridan said with the water lapping at their feet. “Just you and me. We’ll live in a little shack right on the beach and eat lobster fresh from the ocean every day.”

  Was it then she fell in love with Sheridan? She would never leave the United States, and shellfish made her break out in hives. Living in a shack wasn’t included in her life’s master plan. But the idea he would suggest doing all those things with her, so many years in the future, served to remove yet another brick from the wall built around her heart.

  Gillette passed Camille a box of wooden matches. “I want you to picture Sheridan in your mind,” she instructed.

  Camille closed her eyes.

  “Do you see him?”

  “Yes,”

  “Good. Now, light the candle.”

  Camille opened the matchbox and removed a single spindly stick.

  “Always remember, in order to get what you want, you have to give up something you love,” Gillette said.

  Camille struck the match on the side of the box, and the sudden flare splashed shadows of the two women and Louie onto the faded floral wallpaper. She lifted the fire to the wick which exploded into a dancing flurry of yellow, red, and blue, then simmered to a gently waving burn.

  Gillette picked up the card and said, “I want you to picture Sheridan in the flame. Can you see him?”

  “Yes.”

  Gillette moved the tip of the sentimental card to the flame, lit it afire, and placed it burning onto the silver tray. The picture came next.

  “Do you still see him in the flame?”

  “Yes,” Camille replied simply.

  “Good. Now, you take the hairs and sprinkle them over the flame.”

  Camille stood from the table and opened the pillbox.

  “Go ahead. Don’t be afr
aid. Pour them over the flame.”

  Camille saw Sheridan’s face clearly in the fire. She searched her heart, but found no mercy. There was only growing contempt. She poured the hairs into her palm and placed it over the fire. Her hand slowly turned and a shower of stubble rained down over the blaze.

  Sparks suddenly erupted like fireworks. Camille quickly jerked her hand away and watched the sensational, yet brief, display.

  “You did well, Camille,” Gillette said from her seat. “It is and so we let it be.”

  Tony sat alone in his office at city hall. His office was directly across the hall from Camille’s and the second largest in the entire building. An efficient assistant guarded his door like a sphinx at the entrance of a king’s tomb. His world was reduced to the space between these four walls ever since the call from Lazarus Hearst.

  “Hold all my calls,” was his morning command to the assistant. “Cancel all my meetings for the day.”

  The plan had been risky but elegant in its simplicity. Serve as Sheridan’s eyes and ears at city hall, and in return, receive 30 percent of the profits from real estate deals between KeyCorp Development and the city. Sheridan had transferred the first million into Tony’s account in the middle of the night two years earlier. It all seemed too easy and too good to be true. He went to sleep with $50,000 in credit card debt—and woke the next morning a millionaire.

  Tony respected, and even admired Camille. A black woman who was one of the rare people in the world who actually was the smartest person in every room she entered. Ivy League education, beautiful, and a future even brighter than her past. He never met a person, be it a man, woman, black, or white in his hometown, Dowagiac, Michigan, or at Harvard or anywhere else, like Camille. But the thing he admired most about her was Sheridan.

  On the first day he met Sheridan, their eyes communicated more than their benign words of “Very nice to meet you. Camille’s told me very nice things about you.” The mutual subtext to their exchange was more along the lines of, “Camille does like to surround herself with beautiful things.”